


I never agreed with jefferson once

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: like you need it to survive [3]
Category: Designated Survivor (TV), Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Arguing, Banter, Designated Survivor AU, Fluff, French, Hamilton&Jefferson2k20, Hurt/Comfort, Jefferson&Hamilton2k16, Lafayette once again being amazing, M/M, NaNoWriMo, President Hamilton, TJeffs making sure AHam eats and sleeps, Texting, alexander hamilton: human disaster, because you just know he would ignore his own body's needs otherwise, non-linear storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: In which Alexander and Thomas fight, argue, take care of each other, rebuild a government, and fall in love (not necessarily in that order).





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this verse has taken over my life
> 
> I started this as a training exercise for philosophy, which then got me thinking about which one would be for and which one against Sartre. It then kind of… evolved.
> 
> I trust you'll understand the reference to another Hamilton crossover without me having to name the fic–– Never mind, it's A Little Closer to Home by _Gement, hollimichele_ , and you should read the entire series immediately because it is _amazing_.

Thomas honestly didn't know how he got into those sorts of situations. Here he was, at one in the morning, debating philosophy with Alexander Hamilton in his private quarters in the White House. Between them stood a bottle of wine, but it has long since been abandoned in favour of the absorbing argument.

”No, but don't you see?” Hamilton was saying excitedly, gesturing with his hands to emphasize his point. “Our existence is not founded on any previous objective facts. Nothing is fixed. Our life is only what we make of it. There is something horrifying about that realization, isn't there? For instance, it removes your excuses not to act. It gives you freedom, but it also dooms you to it. Your life and the consequences of your decisions are nobody's fault but your own.”

”Of course you'd say that we are doomed to freedom,” Jefferson sniffed condescendingly. ”But some aren't free in their options, restricted by their living situating. Nobody chooses poverty, Hamilton.”

Hamilton shot him a glare. ”I know that better than anyone. Sartre acknowledges that, whereas Locke, your favourite, evades answering the question, talking on how we assume that free will is a substance, rather than a power, and that it makes no sense. He refuses to even breach the question, just like you refuse to take responsibility for your actions, Jefferson.”

“I do take responsibility,” Jefferson objected, “but I also acknowledge that not everything that happens is the result of my previous actions. You, on the other hand, can't get past the fact that the world doesn't actually revolve around you.”

“It's called being smart. Contrary to you, I actually have the guts to question people when they are wrong,” Hamilton said defiantly.

“No, what you do is defy authority at every turn.”

Hamilton narrowed his eyes. “I won't be ruled by anyone, or be dependent on anyone. I've had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

“Obedience isn't always a bad thing, you know. Sometimes it can even benefit you. For example, if you don't argue with the police, you won't get arrested,” Thomas wasn't sure if his words were mocking or cautionary.

But even to this, Hamilton had a response at the ready. “You just said it yourself: Sartre agrees that there are situations where you aren't free. You're not free if someone is holding a gun to your head, or if the police is threatening you with incarceration,” Alexander rebuked his argument.

Thomas twirled his finger in front of Alexander's face. “That's where you're wrong,” he claimed. “If you choose to go ahead with the police and be complacent, that's still a choice that you have to live with.”

“No,” Alexander shook his head. “Do you remember the situation in France during World War II? They didn't exactly have a choice. They could comply, or they could be shot. If the option of defiance results in the loss of your life, it's not technically a choice, and you're not abusing your duty to choose.”

Jefferson sighed and leaned deeper into the armchair he was occupying. “You've got it all wrong, but I can see that I'm not going to get through to you.”

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “You are the one in the wrong, Jefferson. Sartre was a genius, and I cannot believe you do not see it.

“In fact,” he continued, “the one point where I disagree with Sartre is his belief that there is no God or any point to our existence. I believe that we are here for a reason.”

Jefferson absently put a stray hair behind his ear. “So what you're saying is that everything we do has already been preordained?” he questioned.

“No, I believe in free will. Still, at the end of the day, I am a mathematician,” Alexander leaned forward as he explained. “The odds that the universe just happened to become this and for us to exist, for any life to exist, they are ridiculously astronomical. Scientists have actually estimated them to be one in 10390, and while they may have forgotten to include that the minimal and maximal distance a planet has to be away from the sun in order to be habitable for life, we are still looking at—“

“Well, how do you deal with the whole 'if God exists, then man is not free' thing?”

Hamilton actually rolled his eyes at this question. “God doesn't make us do anything. We aren't His toys, we are His _children_ , and sooner or later, all children have to become independent.”

“Well, if God exists, then so does Hell and the Devil,” Jefferson persisted. “If God is omniscient, then He controls Satan, in which case He is an accomplice to Satan's crimes. If He doesn't control Satan, then He is not all-mighty.”

Hamilton scowled. “I'm pretty sure I have seen this question on the internet before, Thomas. That's just plain _cheating_ ,” he pouted. _“_ But very well, if you want to go down that route,” he tilted his head. “Have you considered that maybe Lucifer didn't do it because he was evil or jealous but because he cared about his Father too much? Alternatively, he could have been acting on God's orders. After all, if you don't have an evil Hell to create a contrast against a good Heaven, people will not attempt to improve themselves. If there is no other choice, then people won't be actually choosing God, since it is not a choice if you don't know that you have other options. He wants people to choose Him on their own terms, even when given another option. That's what free will is about,” he concluded.

“I will literally pay you to shut up,” Thomas groaned. “You are spewing so much bullshit that I start to question whether you even think before you speak, or if you just say the first thing that pops into your mind.”

Alexander smirked. “You uncultured swine, this is Christianity 101. Your professed beloved John Locke advocated it.”

Thomas grimaced. “Well, everybody has to be wrong about something. And Sartre, your beloved philosopher, advocated terrorism, if I remember my history right,” he paused to take a sip of the abandoned wine, then thought better of it when it turned out that the wine had become luke-warm. “I can't believe you support the man who supported terrorism,” he groaned, then thought for a second before refuting himself: “No, actually, I do.”

“He didn't support it,” Hamilton insisted. “He simply understood that sometimes, it's the only way people feel like they're being heard.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I see no difference,” he dismissed Alexander's words.

Alexander scoffed. “Of course you wouldn't. You're so close-minded, you need a key every time you need to retrieve an idea from that brain of yours.”

Jefferson smirked. “Are we back to insults, Hamilton? Very mature,” he mocked. “I can see why Washington favoured you.”

Hamilton balled his right hand into a fist, but said nothing. Thomas decided to push the discussion. “Then again, Sartre had this annoying habit of sticking his nose into other people's business, something that you seem to share,” he mused, ignoring Hamilton's cry of outrage.

“Who's back to insults now, Jefferson?” Hamilton scoffed.

Jefferson shrugged. “It's not an insult if it's true. Besides, you should take it as a compliment. You are both unconventional, autodidactic, bohemian revolutionists who turn the world simply by writing."

“Your tone indicates it wasn't exactly a compliment,” Alexander shot back. “But I'll take it as one. Sartre was a great man. In fact, the second greatest to ever live,” he added, with only the shadow of a grin implying his amusement at what he was about to say.

“Really?” Thomas perked up. “Who was the greatest?”

Alexander grinned openly. “Julius Caesar.”

Thomas stared. And stared. Then stared some more. It took him a few moments to regain his ability to communicate verbally, but he compensated for that with his loud outburst of “Have you gone completely bananas?!”

“No, I'm afraid I'm allergic,” Alexander shot back, still wearing that ridiculous grin on his face.

“Who in their right mind would ever consider Julius Caesar to be a good human being, let alone one of the greatest?”

Alexander grinned. “See, that's the difference,” he exclaimed. “One person can be great, but not good. Similarly, someone can be good but not great. Take Voldemort for example. He was terrible, yes, and committed horrifying crimes, but there is no denying that he had great–”

Thomas opened his mouth to contradict him. “Hamilton–“

Hamilton shushes him and waves his index finger in front of his nose. “Excuse you, I wasn't done. As I was saying, there is no denying that Voldemort wielded great power, nor that he could easily have ruled Great Britain if he had not gone after the Potters, or if he had let any of his Death Eaters kill them instead.”

“What you are essentially saying is that you value powerful men more than good men,” Jefferson couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Alexander shrugged. “I would like to say that I don't, but I'm not in a habit of lying to myself,” he conceded. “I'd rather have an ruthless but effective leader than a compassionate yet incompetent one.”

“And this,” Thomas poked at him, “is why you'd make a downright terrible president.”

“I'd make a _fantastic_ president,” Alexander objected. “I'd just rather be divisive than indecisive, if I had to choose between the two.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Being merciful isn't always a vice, nor is having patience,” he informed the shorter man.

Alexander shrugged. “Maybe you are right, but I have yet to experience a situation where patience would be preferable to honesty.”

“If you're so big on overwhelming people with your honesty, then why did you try to hide your relationship with Lafayette from me?” Jefferson quirked an eyebrow.

Alexander squirmed. “I wasn't hiding anything. I simply wanted to have something that was just _mine –_ not the president's, not the media's, but mine.”

“You're pathetically oblivious if you think that an influential political figure has any privacy.”

“I'm not oblivious,” Alexander retorted.

Thomas barely held himself back from pointing out that Hamilton hasn't noticed that the entire conversation had been held in French, which was pretty much the definition of 'oblivious'.

“Sure, if it helps you sleep at night,” he shot back sarcastically.

* * *

 

They have made an unspoken agreement to never mention the goat milk incident again. The less said about it, the better.

* * *

 

Jefferson took one look at the dark bags under Alexander's eyes and sighed. “You know, it's a wonder you've even survived to adulthood,” Thomas said with annoyance, looking at the empty cups of coffee strewn all around Alexander's private office. “You're cranky when you're hungry, but you don't eat unless someone force-feeds you. You shut off any alarms that you set to remind you to take a break, because you think they're distracting. You're intransigent when you don't get enough sleep, and you never sleep, like, at all, because you somehow think that you can operate solely on coffee, which you inhale a quite frankly alarming amount of. Like, I don't drink as much in a week as you do in one day. In short, you ignore your body's needs in favour of work. I'm just waiting for you to collapse.”

“Hey!” Alexander protested. “I take offense at that!”

Thomas quirked an eyebrow. “Well, if the shoe fits, wear it,” he returned nonchalantly. “Also, while we are on the subject, you don't socialize or relax. I, at least, have an excuse for not attending parties, but you choose to literally hole yourself up here until I let you get back to the office, instead of living a little. You–“

“Thomas,” Alexander interjected. “Writing,” he pointed at the laptop, where Jefferson could see a document already qualifying for the 'too many damn pages to understand' category, “it's how I relax. I write, because otherwise I'd be swept away by my own thoughts. I have a thousand ideas a minute, and if I don't get them down in writing, I'm going to forget them, and then I'm going to be anxious about it. By writing them down, I can control them, and, by extension, be in control of myself.”

Thomas sighed. “When was the last time you ate something?”

The fact that Alexander had to think about the answer for longer than thirty seconds was telling in its own way. “Yesterday morning, I think,” he responded sheepishly.

Thomas shook his head, then wordlessly headed into the kitchen, which was coincidentally connected to Hamilton's office. He started taking out products seemingly at random, and filled a saucepan with water, then set it to boil.

“What is this?” Apparently Alexander had followed him into the kitchen with his laptop, and was now studying him suspiciously.

“ _This_ is an intervention. More specifically, this is me making you food.”

Alexander sniffed the air, then wrinkled his nose. “Is that mac and cheese?”

Jefferson jabbed Alexander's chest with a wooden spoon. “You will shut up and enjoy it,” he berated. “If you had been taking care of yourself, you wouldn't have to be force-fed like the little brat that you are,” he added the insult almost as an afterthought.

“ _Ouais, mère ,_” Alexander rolled his eyes.

“And don't sass me.”

“I would _never_.”

“See? Stop that."

“Stop what?”

“You won't get any mac and cheese if you don't behave.”

“That would be fabulous.”

Just as Alexander had said that, his stomach growled. Thomas grinned. “Your stomach begs to differ,” he turned around, stirred the pot, then forced Alexander to sit down. “Sit and stay here. Use whatever little patience you have to wait for the food.”

Just for that, Alexander set about tapping 'go to hell, motherfucker' in Morse Code, and relished in the way Thomas' left eye twitched.

* * *

"What about Drawwood for Treasury?"

They had been at it for hours on end, and Hamilton had so far vetted every single candidate Jefferson suggested, or even vaguely insinuated, claiming that none of them had the right brain, mindset, and determination to be an efficient Treasury Secretary. Even Jefferson had eventually found a satisfactory replacement for the head of the State Department — and yet it seemed that no person could ever be good enough for Alexander Hamilton.

Hamilton sniffed. "Drawwood?" he snorted derisively, as if the name itself was a curse. "She's intelligent, I'll give her that, but she focuses far too much on the now and doesn't give nearly enough thought to possible consequences."

Jefferson put his head in his hands and let out a resigned sigh. "You're going to find faults with every single person I put forward, Alexander. This is the least amount of criticism you've given any candidate so far. At this rate, by the time we find a replacement that meets your ridiculously high requirements, it will be election day. I'm choosing Drawwood."

"Drawwood is a _mess_ ," Hamilton protested.

Jefferson raised an eyebrow. "And you weren't? At least this one won't kick me under the table during cabinet meetings."

"No, she'll spit crumpled paper balls paper at you," Hamilton muttered. "She did it during the 2016 International Trade Conference."

"Don't be such a tattletale," Jefferson smirked. "You need to learn how to share your toys. Besides, wasn't that the same conference where you threw paper airplanes at no less than four separate speakers?"

Hamilton huffed. "They didn't know what they were talking about. I was actually doing the audience a favour by interrupting them. Especially Leston, who was talking about the laissez-faire capitalism. For one, I doubt he even knows what it means, and second, and now important, is that a government falls if the economy is left solely to the private individuals. The federal government has to be involved in controlling the economy, unless one wants to create the very instability from which we are trying to—"

Jefferson held up a hand to stall the shorter man from ranting endlessly. "Alexander, I will literally pay you to stop talking. My decision concerning Drawwod is final."

Hamilton tilted his head upwards defiantly. "I, as the Senate, could refuse to approve of her."

"You could," Jefferson admitted, "but you are not going to, because I am not going to appoint anybody else, and you won't be able to be in charge of Treasury for much longer."

"You would leave the Treasury unattended?" Hamilton voiced indignantly.

Jefferson shrugged. "I would prefer not to, but you seem to leave me no choice. If you would rather see the Treasury degenerate…" he did not finish the thought – he didn't have to.

Hamilton stood up; his eyes shone with fury. "You absolute bastard. This is blackmail."

He stormed out of the meeting room. Jefferson grinned. "I'm taking that as a reluctant compliance with my decision."

"Fuck you, Jefferson!"

"Maybe later, _Zander_."

"And don't call me Zander!"

* * *

“Have you ever read Harry Potter?” Alexander threw the question out into the air one winter evening.

For the past several hours, he has been pouring over a stack of documents sent over from the Defense Department while nursing his fourth cup of coffee since lunch – which consisted of one half-eaten banana that has been abandoned in favour of said work. Thomas was immersed in a well-worn copy of _The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ by Edward Gibbon, sometimes making a noise of agreement or sighing in disapproval at the author's writing. Every once in a while, he would take a sip of some, in Alexander's opinion, ridiculously expensive brand of whiskey.

Thomas startled. He had been absentmindedly making a list of potential restaurant that offer take-out at this hour, since it didn't look like Alexander would be retiring anytime soon, and was currently leaning towards the Québecois dish poutine, having recently developed a taste for Canadian cuisine as a result of hosting a dinner for a delegation of Canadian francophones (during which Hamilton would not stop flirting with the ambassador), when Alexander blurted out the non-sequitur. Thomas put down his book and stared at him. “Who hasn't?” he asked rhetorically. “I am a proud Slytherin.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Of course you'd be a Slytherin,” he spit out the word as though it was poison.

Thomas snorted patronizingly. “I wouldn't expect you to understand the true nature of the Slytherin House,” he dismissed the younger man. “You probably read the series without questioning Potter's viewpoint and prejudice against the other Houses.”

The scribbling stopped. Hamilton put away his fountain pen (and really, who even used these nowadays), but didn't look away from the files. “I did, but I also realize that this pro-Slytherin trend isn't an accurate portrayal of the House's values either.”

“Oh?” Jefferson challenged idly. “And what could a Gryffindor such as you possibly know about that?” One corner of his mouth was turned upwards.

Alexander's nose twitched. “I am a Ravenclaw, for your information, not that you care,” he retorted.

“Naw,” Thomas smirked, “you're a Gryffindor through and through. You're reckless, you do not consider the consequences of your actions, you think that the world revolves around you, and you think that you're always right. That's a Gryffindor if I ever saw one.”

Hamilton actually looked up from his work to glare at Jefferson. “Now who hasn't done their research?” he scoffed. “Gryffindors are simply 'brave of heart, and their daring and chivalry sets them apart'.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “You are an absolute geek, Alexander. Quoting Harry Potter? Are you even real?”

“Pot, tell kettle it's black,” Alexander replied. “After all, you recognized the quote.”

“Aren't you quick-witted,” Jefferson said dryly.

Alexander grinned. “Alas, I admit it.”

“I bet you were quite a lawyer, Thomas jeered.

Hamilton shrugged. “Well, my clients got acquitted, so I suppose I was decent,” he said in a rare show of something resembling modesty.

“I'm pretty sure that was all Burr, while you focused on more – how can I put it – _carnal_ pleasures.”

Hamilton frowned. “If you're suggesting that I bribed the judge with sexual favours, I will literally break your nose,” he threatened.

From his tone of voice, Thomas couldn't figure out whether Alexander was joking or not. “You said it, not me. Besides, you aren't tall enough,” he taunted.

“You've sunk low enough for me to reach,” Hamilton snarked. “And implying is as good as saying the accusation outright, and you know it.”

Jefferson leaned back in his chair. He fixed Alexander with amused eyes. “I have implied a great many things in the past, he remarked lightly. “Would you like to sit here and analyze all of them? Because that might take all night.”

Hamilton glared. “ _Je commence à penser que je devrais faire ça_ ,” he bit back.

Jefferson closed his book, mindful of the page number. “Sweet Jesus, Alexander, why do you have to get all pissy about this?”

Hamilton growled in frustration. “It's not just this time, Jefferson. This happens every time,” he tended to revert to Thomas' last name when incensed. He stood up and walked over to Jefferson. “You are constantly being an ass. You just–“ he threw up his hands into the air, then let them drop without finishing his thought.

Jefferson tilted his head. “I just what?” he prompted. “Am lovable? Handsome? Tantalizing?”

“Vexatious, if anything.”

“Fancy word. Are you sure you know what it means?” Jefferson outright taunted.

For a few lengthy moments, the room was completely quiet, followed by the sound of flesh being struck by a hard object.

“Ow! What the actual fuck, Hamilton?!” Jefferson stood up, fury blazing in his eyes.

“I'm leaving,” Hamilton scooped up his forgotten documents into his satchel.

“What the fuck, Hamilton,” Jefferson hissed, holding his hands around his nose. “You can't just punch me and walk away.”

“Watch me,” Hamilton curled his lip. “ _À demain_.”

“You insolent bastard! You're fired.”

“Haven't we already tried that experiment?” Hamilton shot back over his shoulder. “You didn't last very long.”

“At least _apologize_ , asshat! You can't just hit people whenever you want to.”

“I'm sorry that punching you wasn't as satisfying as I had imagined it'd be.”

“Wow, what an apology. It didn't sound anywhere _near_ sincere.”

“Goodnight, Mr President,” Hamilton opened the door, phrasing the title as an insult as was his wont.

“It can only get better with you gone,” Jefferson retorted, rummaging through the small kitchenette attached to his private office in search of a towel and ice he could press against his unfortunately bruised but (hopefully) not broken nose.

* * *

The next day, Alexander Hamilton had the gall to pretend that nothing had happened and went about his business as usual. He steadfastly ignored the glares sent his way by Jefferson. Thomas desperately wished that he could fire him for such blatant insolence, but Hamilton was right: he was needed. Thomas could almost taste the proverbial lemon he had swallowed.

“My nose is fine, thank you for asking,” Thomas muttered sarcastically.

Alexander dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I'm not here to listen to your face features. I'd like to talk about the recurrent vigilante violence in Arkansas for the past three months…” he began, his mouth already shooting off six words a second without any signs of stopping.

How did the saying go? _If life gives you lemons, make lemonade._ He could deal with Hamilton, if only out of necessity. Probably.

* * *

“What are you doing?” Jefferson peeked at Hamilton's screen.

Hamilton startled and closed the laptop. “Nothing,” he shot back, a little too quickly.

“Nothing. I see,” Jefferson smirked. “Mind if I take a look at that 'nothing'?” he made air quotes with his fingers.

“Actually, I do mind,” Hamilton scowled.

“Then it's not _nothing_. What are you hiding? And don't say 'none of your business',” he raised a finger just as Hamilton was opening his mouth. “If you're going to shoot me down, at least be inventive about it.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes. “Fine, you win,” he gave in. “I'm writing a book.”

Jefferson stared. “You're my vice president, you are effectively also the Senate and the Congress, you're currently running the Treasury and working on your bill and vetting various cabinet members, and on top of that, you have the time to write a book?” he said incredulously. “When do you sleep?”

At that, Hamilton averted his eyes. Jefferson scoffed. “Of course, sleep is below you, isn't it?” he asked rhetorically, taunting the younger man. “Well, guess what, you're going to eat some food and then you're going to go to sleep.”

“I don't have the time to drive home just because you're playing mother hen,” Hamilton objected.

Jefferson was undeterred. “Then it is a good thing that the White House happens to have a few spare bedrooms, doesn't it?”

“Thomas–“

“Keep in mind that I have the authority to suspend you if I suspect that you are taxing your health.”

“Since when do you care about my health?” Hamilton shot back.

Jefferson looked at the ceiling, as if praying for patience. “Since you are in charge of doing all the things I previously listed. I need some semblance of government – and if keeping that semblance means that I have to force-feed my vice president, then so be it.”

Hamilton winced. “It won't come to that,” he assured.

Jefferson tilted his head. “Then get off your laptop, eat something, and get a solid eight hours of sleep. _Then_ you can go back to work.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes as he closed the laptop. “Does the country know that they have a mother hen as a president?” he complained, then stifled a yawn.

Jefferson grabbed the laptop, giving him a pointed look. “That's all the evidence I need. Food, then sleep."

* * *

_From: thomasthedumbengine  
_ where are you

Alexander groaned in frustration at the interruption. He shot off a quick response before delving back into SecNav's report. The sound of a honking train alerted him to a text, followed by several others in quick succession. He took a quick look.

 _From: thomasthedumbengine_  
stop working  
you've been here since yesterday  
you're overworking yourself  
your blood is literally 3% coffee at this point

 _To: thomasthedumbengine_  
t'es pas ma mère  
also, I ate a banana this morning  
I'm fine

 _From: thomasthedumbengine_  
no you're not  
I will drag you out of your office  
I'll use force if necessary

 _To: thomasthedumbengine  
_ I'd like to see you try

 _From: thomasthedumbengine_  
I'll drug your coffee  
don't try my patience

* * *

Alexander forewent continuing the banter with Thomas, and once again sunk into the files in front of him. He lost track of time, reveling in the effective way he dealt with SecNav's quite frankly alarmingly short report. He was in the process of criticizing the length of the document, when the door opened, and he was greeted with the sight of Thomas' familiar magenta coat.

Thomas sighed as he took in the scene before him: Alexander focused on yet another pile of undoubtedly urgent communiques (and whose idea was it to print all reports, anyway? It was the 21st century, not the Dark Ages, for Christ's sake). “Come on, Alexander, time to go home.”

“But I have so much to do!” Alexander immediately protested. “I still need to–“

“Whatever it is you need to do, can wait until tomorrow."

“It really _can't_ ,” Alexander insisted.

Thomas ignored him. “This is me using my presidential prerogative to suspend you from work until you get a solid night's sleep.”

“I'd like to state for the record that this is a blatant misuse of power.”

* * *

Thomas was almost finished with a briefing sent over from the Attorney General's office, when the door to his office were unceremoniously slammed open and Alexander burst in. “I thought we had agreed a few months prior not to interfere in the Syrian crisis!” he yelled, not bothering to tone down his volume.

The president pinched his nose as he waited for Alexander to exhaust his complaints. He put down the report, marking where he left off. When Alexander slowed down, presumably to take a deep breath before going on another tangent, Thomas cut in. “I do not share President Washington's opinions about handling international wars.”

“But Washington already decided that this was the approach we would use,” Hamilton gestured frustratingly.

“Just because Washington, for some unfathomable reason, liked you more than the rest of us, doesn't make your opinions superior. Seeing as how I am the president now, I have the ability to change our approach towards the matter, which is what I did.”

“Washington didn't favour me,” Alexander denied vehemently. “He chose my views over yours because they _are_ superior.”

Thomas scoffed. “You may as well have been Washington's son in all but blood. No, don't deny it,” Thomas lifted up a hand when Alexander opened his mouth to argue. “You were the only one, apart from his wife, who could read his emotions when he was doing his poker face. I don't know why you were so vehemently opposed to a closer relationship with the man, but we all knew you were his favourite.”

“Because it would undermine all my achievements!” Alexander burst out. “People would think that I got where I am not by the virtue of talent and hard work, but by favouritism.”

Thomas sighed. “People had thought like that regardless of whether you acknowledged Washington's affections or not. No matter, it's too late to discuss this now anyway,” he prevented any further discussion into the matter.

“You are running away from the argument because you know you're going to lose,” Alexander taunted him.

“Have you considered that it is you who cannot let go of an argument, even when you know you cannot win?”

Alexander sniffed. “The day I acknowledge that I cannot win an argument is the day hell freezes over,” he stated stubbornly.

“Alexander Hamilton in a sentence,” Thomas summed up. “Now piss off, I'm working.”

“Ooh, what are you working on?” Alexander leaned over Thomas' desk and tried to read the document upside down.

Thomas snatched it. “As you like to say, it's none of your business. Don't you have at least five things that need doing?”

Alexander rolled his eyes. "I get the hint."

Thomas waved him off. "In order for there to have been a hint, there had to have been something subtle about what I had said. There wasn't. Now _out_."

* * *

“Alexander? You sent for me. Are you okay?”

Alexander whirled around at the sound of his boyfriend's voice. “Hi,” he said, for once in lack of words. How does one even commence this conversation?

Thomas watched Alexander pace a hole in the carpet. He exuded an air of nervousness, which unsettled Thomas. It took a lot to perturb Alexander Hamilton. Whatever this was, it was bound to be truly atrocious.

Alexander began walking around nervously around the room. It crossed Thomas' mind that he did wasn't aware of doing it, so he called Alexander's attention to himself again. Alexander ceased pacing, and settled his gaze on Thomas' chest. He began speaking. “I know I talk too much, I'm abrasive, I don't listen, I don't take care of myself, I work myself halfway to death, I ignore you when I'm writing, which is nearly all the time,” he winced, “I seldom sleep – and when I do, I hog all the blankets. I function on coffee and sheer will power,” he chuckled self-deprecatingly. “In short, I'm an asshole.”

“Where are you heading with this?” Thomas asked suspiciously. If this was another bid to push through a controversial reform, Thomas wasn't sure what he would do. It would probably involve defenestration and yelling.

Alexander looked down to stare at the floor, then finally met Thomas' eyes timidly. “Will you marry me? I mean, there was supposed to be a ring, but though I went ring shopping last week, I couldn't find one that would fit your personality. They were all imperfect, and you deserve the best of the best because, for all your wrong opinions, you are perfect.”

For a moment, Thomas didn't say anything. The silence was finally broken by sounds of laughter emanating from the Virginian. Alexander mentally curled in on himself. Was it honestly such a horrifying thought that he loved Thomas so profoundly that he wanted to marry the man? Or did Thomas simply find the thought of marrying _him_ so repulsive that it was absurdly funny?

“Thomas?” he dared to ask.

Thomas's laughter died down when he saw that Alexander was legitimately worried. He put on a heartening smile, with did little to calm Alexander's nerves. “I'm very sorry, but when you were pacing around the room, I started to picture all sorts of disastrous scenarios, all the way from a hurricane threatening Florida again, to our country falling apart. I didn't consider that you were nervous, because I have _never seen you be affected by nerves_. I promise that I wasn't laughing at you.”

He approached Alexander, who stood as still as a statue, and gripped his hands. “Every day, I find new reasons to fall deeper and deeper in love with you, Alexander Hamilton. I love every part about you – yes, even your working habits, even though they annoy me more often than not,” he paused to kiss his forehead in reassurance. “You are the most dedicated and determined person I have had the pleasure to meet. I would be the happiest man alive if you would give me the honour of marrying me.”

Alexander finally relaxed, and his lips formed the beginnings of a smile. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Thomas'.

When they came up for air a minute later, Thomas flippantly proposed that they solve the ring problem by looking for rings together. Alexander enthusiastically agreed. He smiled as he mentally started composing his wedding vows.

* * *

_From: macaroni man_  
alexander and I are getting married  
do feel cordially invited

 _To: macaroni man_  
CONGRATULATIONS!!!  <3 ^^  
when?

 _From: macaroni man_  
we haven't set a date yet, tbh  
we only just got engaged

* * *

 

_To: petit lion  
_ un oiseau m'a dit que t'es fiancé à thomas

_From: petit lion  
_ c'était thomas, n'est-ce pas?

_To: petit lion  
_ tu nous connais si bien

_From: petit lion_  
j'allais te demander d'être mon témoin  
mais thomas a probablement déjà te demandé

 _To: petit lion_  
non  
mais j'aimerais être ton témoin

_From: petit lion  
_ tu est super

 

**Author's Note:**

> I kept thinking about how Hamilton would be like as president. He would be a workaholic and I'm pretty sure that Jefferson would have to physically drag Hamilton to bed or for food because you just know that Alexander would forget to eat because he'd be too busy writing or doing paperwork or planning something. Jefferson would make mac and cheese, and Hamilton would be so fed up with it.
> 
> Also, I am not religious, and this is basically the extent of my religious knowledge (apart from a creepily long list of angel names because I also watch Supernatural and one tends to pick up on stuff because there's only so much no homo totally homo subtext subtext one can take before you start to focus on angel names instead)
> 
> Two history facts: 1. Alexander Hamilton was a deeply religious man, though his church attendance until Philip's death was erratic at best. 2. Hamilton _did_ once refer to Julius Caesar as the 'greatest man that ever lived' just to piss off Jefferson.


End file.
